My eyes always see the floor when I walk by
But my ears can still hear the mocking laughs
Fingers pointing at me
As though knives stabbing me repeatedly
Splitting my heart into halves
I still look in the mirror that doesn't lie
They have eyes, nose, lips, and everything
And so do I
Now, what's wrong with this face of mine?
The acne, freckles, pores, scars, and whatnot?
People can have it, who says they cannot?
"Too slim, too fat"
I am me, can't society accept that?
I asked the mirror that doesn't lie,
"I'm beautiful, aren't I?"

(I think I've lost the ability to start things, so please forgive this poem for not having an attention grabbing genesis)
I've been twiddling my thumbs for almost eight months now
Putting off all that I care about
(And especially everything that I don't. Here's lookin' at you, AP World History)
Sitting around amassing a booklet of words to use in the future for novels and whatnot
But only using them in essays so I seem smarter than I am
(For example, susurrus means 'a whispering or rustling sound; a murmur')
Hoarding anything affiliated with Ben Folds because he makes me feel things on occasion
(I currently have 189 songs of his on my iTunes library; No one understands me.)
Making **** jokes at lunch while masking the thoughts of substance ricocheting around in my head
(Also your mom jokes because no one would think that you're crying internally about the uncertainty of the afterlife whilst making lewd stabs at their mother's integrity(and ******. Ba dum tss.))
Apparently craving the lingering feel of another's touch
(I had a dream a few weeks back that Ben Folds licked my hand; My stomach folded (hahahah, folded) in on itself.)
Thinking that my feelings of misanthropy and apathy and everything else I can't find the words for yet are mine alone because everyone else is too stupid to have thought them themselves
(Even though I know that I'm not particularly special and I should stop being so elitist and stupid)

But I've finally found a light at the end of the table in the last place I'd expect--
(I meant to say tunnel, but hey, the source of said light does sit at my lunch table.)
A cherubic Presbyterian boy with an aversion to all things perverse,
(Which includes my sailor's tongue and occasional tendencies to want to put it on a member of my own ***, though he doesn't know about that)
A spec of cleanliness on the grimy waistcoat of humanity who makes me want to be the best I can be
(Today when I saw him, I only swore once; I was very proud of myself)
But maybe I'm just jumping the gun
Because what would a good Christian boy want with a heathen like me who isn't even sure she believes in God?
Maybe his prolonged contingencies were merely contingent and I'm just overreacting because of my few and far between incidences of human contact.
(Seriously. Don't touch me.)
Maybe I just want someone to talk to for hours about everything and nothing at all.
(What with me being relatively antisocial, it's hard to find people with similar mindsets.)
Maybe I just want someone to funnel my adolescent attention into
(Because teen movies have taught me that one obviously can't be happy without having a crush on someone at any given time.)
Or maybe it's just because the way the Bible quote on the back of his t-shirt conflicted so humorously with the way he shook his hips to a J-Lo song on "Just Dance."
(Seriously, though, it was hilarious. I was dying.)
Or the way our fingers brushed when we were catching frogs
Or the way he blushed when I stepped out in my bikini
(I went to a pool party today.)
Or the way he held me momentarily in the delirious confusion of the flashing strobe lights
Or the way he got one point higher on his research paper than me a month ago
(He was excited; I was upset.)
Or the way that he does everything nearly to perfection.
I could go on..
But I don't know.
Maybe I'll get over him in a week and slip back into myself.
Because, like I said, what would a good Christian boy want with a heathen like me?

Crackling criss-crossing blue in mind. It scissors down the lanes through the pipes and tubes and little dividers. Electrical mind numbing beauty. Veins-bursting in excited anticipation. Convulsions and scenic skittering routes. Into the Nexus! Here simmers what we are thinking and believing. Our mind's eye focuses and drips into the pool until completion. Psionic figures dance flicker through life existence. Pulse-width fluctuations. Tiny menagerie of our Will. Scribbling through dusted panes of time interface. All afire with ourselves once we have discovered ourselves. Nano-tech emotions. Hope fear anger mercy curiosity buzzing swarms of grey goo jibbering and bubbling in an artificial mind-****. What is all this allusion? Nothing complicated. Speculation on future times where sensual technological biological singularity is paramount. In my room where the clocks are taped over and the sun is dark and dim. Through the windows I see myself. The boxes on the floor emanate simple clickings with melodies intertwined casually. I myself appear redundant. I have done this and so have others. To discuss oneself is worthless unless you become convinced you are another entity gazing back across the room. I feel I am being watched. I become cautious as he may have noticed. Tingling weightlessness tickles in waves in both heads. The Jazz Classic appears. Old dark men and women in hazy environments. Organic supposition or cold observation? Both hold importance so let us appreciate it all. The cello quivers and hums with vibration. Fingers callused and riveted like the age-old corn field bother still strings. A child hums to just myself. What does he want? I never asked him for an audience. Yet he freely gives it to me. Now he multiplies. Or she? Children confuse and cause one to be apprehensive. Nothing and silence. Silence in movement. Cease my visual stimulation for a couple seconds each. The child is back. What does he speak? Pray inside the rubble? Heal in this place? In disgrace? I do not know. His octaves are meshing together. Whining and thrumming with strange alterations. Some madmen tweaks my ears. Maybe he knows the child? I'm not sure. Let us continue on. The flute is the child. Old cello, you have stopped? These musings mean nothing. I would look upon them in a year and think nothing of it. Yet it feels as if this time is important. Da Vinci knocks on the door. Not as if I wanted to talk to it. Wouldn't mind I suppose. He is gone. We talked but I do not remember the conversation. Perhaps we've all talked but we just don't remember our conversations. That's ridiculous though. Then anything is possible. We could have flown to the moon on scarlet weasels outfitted with the latest nano-pores that secreted pure liquid indulgence. And we did because I just imagined we might have. However, I don't remember actually doing it. Just what I thought it might have been like. How frustrating. My thoughts are the same as all others who write out their thoughts when under the influence of yourself. It always seems like some thing is scuttling near my feet or under the nightstand; just out of view. Strange. I would be afraid. No reason to fear that which doesn't bother me. No reason to fear much of anything. That's been said before. Why are we so often concerned with saying that which has been said before? Cliche? auump-ump auump-ump auump-ump little thumping noise in my ears. That vibration is calming. Every night I am awake. Every day I seem asleep. I do not like it but I do not care yet I allow it to be what it will. Vision defaults to out of focus. My eyes always cross if I cease trying to control them. People are strange. Animals are strange. Same thing I guess. Someone will find that clever. Someone will find it cliche. This someone won't care. ****** fantasy permeates day to day. More entertaining than living a fantasy though. ***. Not that entertaining. Perhaps no one knows how to do it properly anymore. Maybe we never did. Maybe some people are just disenchanted with it. When I'm by myself, I never have any ****** desire. When around others, I generally think of it out of curiosity: what would it be like to please the person in front of me? The only enjoyment I've had with *** would consist of pleasing another or observing another ****. The human body is intriguing. Definitely. I really do think so. Sometimes I look at my own. Not out of appreciation really. Just the fact that I have body allows me to investigate it and understand it more. Pain is merely a stage one can get past, so I suppose I injure myself sometimes to see how I react. It's like I need to check I'm still working properly. I can't tell when I'm tired. I feel something, but when I ask myself if I'm tired, I murmur back, "I don't know." Maybe that is why I stay up till early mornings? I wanted to add again that the human body is beautiful and unappealing all in the same space. Perhaps the unattractiveness and softness and strangeness produces attraction. A negative and a negative equals a positive. Three negatives likes to fluctuate. In my mind at least. I may ask another to remove their clothing and whatnot during those intimate moments. Eh, never quite feel like having *** though. I like the emotions and sensuality of just looking at someone. They usually want to physically play around with each other. I think I enjoy fighting more. One day I'll leave everyone except I'll reminisce on those I enjoyed meeting. Maybe come back and visit? I would like to ride something quickly through an empty desert. Find my own food and water. Create shelter. Think by myself. My room is the smallest desert I have and the biggest. I have more in my head but I only occupy one at a time. I suppose I like I do like things like all others. I mean, materials can be nice. If I impart meaning on to an object it gains importance. I see it vital to also say that if it were to be lost, then I wouldn't mind and I would obtain something else or nothing at all.The constitution. Just mentioned by some woman in my room. Or in my ears would be more correct. Constitutional Rights. I honestly don't see the need for them. I was criticized for burbling that once. We should not need a constitution. We should be able to do what we like to do without fear or concern. Unless natural fear and concern appears. Now that may confuse a bit. Right to bear arms. I shouldn't have to be told or allowed to massive bear arms if I feel the need to have them. Big hairy bear arms. Curious little mishap. Freudian slip as Johnny said once? Danger Danger. Anyway, Right to bare arms. I shouldn't have to be told, as I look back,  go back and throw in that comma after told, that I'm allowed to bare arms and defend myself. I'll just do it if the need arises. Freedom of speech. That already has many issues these days. However, there shouldn't have been a need to tell people they have freedom of speech. Speech should have been freely allowed and never oppressed in  the first place. Theme? We have erred so much in the past and I would think sometimes we ignore that and just try make little cosmetic fixes by saying it's okay. Another point. Hold that: side discomfort. I sometimes feel like a little spider or creature is crawling or skittering on my leg under the covers or I'll change the music to Galaxy 2 Galaxy 90's hi-tec jazz there we go. Done! Now back! Or I forget what I said about the spiders. Another point: what? ******, curse damnable ****. Can't recollect what it was I was connecting together. Something that tied in to deceiving people into things are okay. I could go on about consumerism and all that jazz. Instead I'm listening to some techno-jazz whatever-decided-to-call-it. Hyphenated phrases are fun when I decide they are appropriate. English and grammar in such can be cool but at the same time I want to say **** it and stay proper. Do both. Acknowledge how to write and speak "correctly," but as long as someone understands what you are trying to say, then why correct more? Someone large doesn't like the fact I make a lot of noise in the morning. I stole some speakers and subwoofer from the room next to me as I was going to say Austin.  They are on the floor and whichever large person lives below me is probably annoyed or was. I don't spend any of my actual time despising them, but I'll easily say I despise them when someone asks. Otherwise it isn't worth wasting time on. Perhaps the vibration quivers downstairs and shakes them silently. The greate beast is perturbed and sneaky vibrations cause electro-annoyance! Her pulsewidth as I understand it must be like a super-saw as I think it. Silence. Some woman said it's just a feeling. HEA not sure what why I put that sounds like a garageband song. Switched to Inspiration! That is what I did this night. Finally start writing and making things again. Even though I never did and always did. My head sometimes hurts from thinking. Never truly though. Gotta say those things to keep the conversation going. That is really the only reason I say anything. To keep the conversation going. Otherwise I'd just watch people and be just fine. Just yelled "bahh," out loud (didn't sound the comma) because I felt the need or the want. Same. Wrong keys erased. sdas=a====dddddddddd Sorry. Oh well. Oh My. How the time flies goodbye. Going nowhere. Could write more but I felt the slight flicker of wanting to stop. So I do. What an ending. Now I'm only typing to continue the conversation with myself. Just thought ******* sounds good melody. Do as I sayt way to go good job. STOPSDMFA

****** a

Guess I'll read this little conundrum I wrote up. Stop writing ******. Stop EDITING

Sitting outside in my grandpa’s veranda,
he passed away before I could appreciate his presence;
he wished for me to come see his art;
his garden, a green maze of trees and bushes,
from marigolds and periwinkle to mango trees and whatnot.

As I lay here on the mat,
close to my grandpa, I might gladly add;
seeing the ants crawl up on the periwinkle blooms
and wild butterflies dancing overhead;
with a bulbul on a mango tree branch
and crows chattering near food dumps;
with a sweet scent of marigold in the air
and crickets chirping in the background;
with a mongoose running on the broad fence
and a squirrel eating rice that my grandma kept;
with the sun rays hitting my face through the trees
and a couple of flies hovering beside my novel;
with a moment of pure serenity,
that brings a peaceful calm to this tranquil space;
my heart feels full and my soul at ease.

As a gentle breeze whispers by,
my hair seems to be afloat.
As the fresh air clears my mind,
I feel alive like never before.
As I hear children playing nearby,
memories of my childhood days come alive;
one of the best moments of my life;
in this veranda forever entwined.
As I feel a soft breath of crispness on my face,
I reminisce about the times I had lived with him;
the village isn't as bad as it seemed.

This is the land where my ancestors lived;
and where I feel his presence still,
he must be smiling sitting on the chair beside me;
finally, content that I appreciate his accomplishment.

The doctrine lines,
The white brick walls,
Coffee creeps,
We still drink,
Our tastes have just changed,
Who took the last of the ******* sugar?
It's been empty for weeks,
But mainstays stay, mainly,
Another 24 hours,
Some look less,
Another victim of violence visitation,
Rattling sign, the wind makes it's appearance,
We made it,
Johnboy the ****** tells aboot,
His momentum,
Taking his mom oot to dinner,
He wore his tattoos on his face,
One cheek said sin, the other, ner,
Shakey Sam comes every meow and then,
Saying nothing has changed again,
Lights are flickering,
While Jesus Jane is on another rant,
You know, aboot Jesus and whatnot,
Atheist Jocoby just groans,
The coffee is a bit burnt,
So is my tongue,
New cats, alley cats,
Dogs and birds,
I couldn't tell you which one I am,
Emergency alarms a buzzing all around,
We just turn down the sound,
As it's another go round,
to speak,
I'm James and I'm an alcoholic,
Hi James,
Turn over turn on,
Hold hands with scumbags turned saints,
All because of the fire we got from a drink,
A smoke,
A burnt down life turned to building,
We hug once again,
And step ootside,
Open door policy,
And fire in the sky is there waiting,
Some run,
Some cry,
Shakey Sam wonders aloud,
Will his dealer deliver,
****** Johnboy calls his mom,
Jesus Jane prays,
And Atheist Jocoby drives away,
I put the sign back on the door,
And make a new ***,
I want to hear that story,
Of how that newcomer once got shot,
By a disgruntled **** in San Francisco bay,
At least I don't need a drink today.

I.
Dear Mr. John, always the usual.
We go out every morning, greet
each other the way the sun greets
our skin. We let our fingers do their
own travelling on our palms. Like the
way the sun’s fingers set foot on our
skin. I am talking about the sun today
so that you may be reminded of warmth,
warmth, like the way you eagerly
take the cup of coffee to your lips,
and your tongue sets foot on Mexico
or Dubai. The desert’s sands flooded
your lips all too quickly the moment
you spew out that first sip of coffee.
I don’t recall being stifled the way
you expect me to be. My lungs are
bellowing to the laughter you had
brought me, warm, fuzzy, like it should
be. I find it hard sometimes to take
it seriously—to think that you are
in pain at that moment, first degree
burn and all of that. Smoke rises up
from your cigarette, why should I
worry? Languid as the air in the café,
we let the day stride itself, too serious
for detonation of seriousness, to the point
that even this poem or letter is a joke
worth some peso from your pocket.
It’s not hard. It’s hard to let this moment
sink in, melt like the sugar, granules of
coffee, and creamer on a boiling
cup of water. Boiling, like blood
that goes around our rooted veins;
we let this boiling pass through our
hearts, let it stay a little while till
languid takes it all away. It’s not
that hard, to be honest. Not that
hard to make your own coffee
at the morning’s call. I don’t understand
why you need me so much only on
sunrise due.  I fell tired of your voice,
high and low, as my alarm clock,
every morning till
the sun says we got to go
on our separate paths. I always find it
too hard, like chemistry had not taught me
to separate the mixture of water and coffee.
Too hard as it is easy to combine them. Morning
is easy and when the sun bows down at night,
I remember the whisper of the wind, how it is cold,
freezing what I thought as summer touched heat
of my cup. Cold and heavy like the block of ice
that is my mattress. I find it too hard to recollect myself,
lay bare and stay still as midnight whisper your name,
blew yourself into my window. And I wait for the morning,
heated like the coffee we enjoy. I wait for you
at that moment. But I realize my time is only worth
the length of sipping a hot cup of coffee,
and not a length of conversations worth spilling
on our tongue. I wish it was the words that we
spilled. And not the coffee.

II.
Dear Mr. John, thank you.
Thank you for the invitation to be
at your side every seven in the morning.
I find it warm, like the coffee that centered
between us. Between bellowing laughter
and languid awkwardness. The wind whispers
northbound as it should be. It says to follow its voice;
it’ll take me home. Alone. Like I was programmed
to do. The caffeine had lied enough. It’s normal
after all, for drugs to set in, form delusions and
whatnot. I’m tired, and perhaps I need
a little sleep, slumber for eternity without any
whistling midnight calls, no coffee smoke
to tickle my nostrils, no rising. Nothing.
That’s enough sleepless nights to think
you good. There’s the barista, I assure you
she’s good at what she does. Call her,
ask for the coffee you’d want at seven
in the morning. Converse with the newspaper
so that your mouth will spill not just words,
but important **** that you’ll never thought
worth a peso off your pocket. Spend the morning
not alone, but with the company of ghosts
that are too warm to even call a ghost.
And this time, when the sun had finally
heated your coffee, learn how to wait.
So that this time, a kiss on a cup
won’t burn your lips. Like how
it’s supposed to be.
So that this time, you won’t ****
your cigarette like you used to.
And this time, I can sleep
till noon.

So I see that my poems have started trending. And according to my friend it has to do with the people that follow me.
And as of this moment I have 15 followers (6/3/2014). Cool. So I guess thanks are in order for all of you

1.Sierra Leone  - You were my first follower on here so thank you I apprecaite it.

2. Ranger - You were my second follower. and you are a friend on my "little sister". thanks for the follow

3. Fenix Flight - I am surprised you werent my first follower. BUt regardless, you are the reason I am even on this site so thank you sis.

4. Summer Skye - My fourth and lucky follower. the sister of my "sister" thanks little LF, I am grateful you gave me the honor of being followed by you.

5. Zero Zaneh  - Fifth follower, Thank you man. your work is good.

6. Stace  - sixth follower. we never talk or whatnot, but your work is really good.

7.  IJ Keddie -  seventh follower, thank you. your work is interesting. I like it.

8. Beryldov Lew - eighth follower, thank you. every follow means something to me

9. ᏰέƦẙḽԃṏሁ Լέῳ -  ninth follower. I do not understand your name but i like the work you put up

10. That Asian Josh - tenth follower. (dont take this the wrong way but) We asains must stick together right?. your work is intersting. I enjoy reading it

11. POETIC T - eleventh follower. Marvel? **** yeah man. keep up the cool work

12. Namir- twelvth follower (i cant spell for ****) Dude really it took you this long to follow me -.-. come on, but thanks for it anyway. your work is intense.

13 ISverre G Holter  thirteenth follower. your work is cool. I like it. keep it up

14.PrttyBrd- Fourteenth follower, you started following me last night (6/2/14)  after my poem Life started trending. thank you

15.Nanna Harrow -fifteenth follower, last but not least. you as well started following me last night after my poem Life started trending. thanks for the boost of confedence


There you have it folks. all the people who on here think I am worth something to follow. thanks to each and everyone of you.

I've tucked my dreams away in a time capsule. For certain, they will be better use to someone in the future. Though in all likelihood, they may never be found, for I have told no one where they have been buried and shan't offer a clue. In the capsule, far under the darkness of dirt, should one happen upon it, they will find obscure memories along with those dreams. Just tokens they are, recapturing happy times, made of clay and paint, spell ridden for a future discoverer.  These knick-knacks are sure to have power, as no intention I have ever had has been greater than what was formed in those whatnots. You've seen bric-a-brac shelved, gather dust, and finally find themselves wrapped in tissue paper, inside a shoebox stowed in an attic and forgotten. Then one day they are rediscovered by another generation, who is charmed by their quaintness. They are dusted off and put on a shelf again, until sadness bearing that memory requires them to be sold at some yard sale or donated to a thrift store. I can not see this for my whatnots. To me they are too precious to leave in the hands of those close to me now. I won't have them sobbed over. That is the reason they have been buried. And should a certain someone find them in the course of time, may they only know their dreams fulfilled, by a time capsule that stewed long enough to design newer wonder of whatnot.

Art heals the creator
like scar tissue, sealing
cracks of a broken past,
Red-raw against pale skin
For the world to see that
You're recovering whatnot,
Till time fades these wounds
To nothing
a little makeup can't hide,
So we blend back in, to
Where we never belonged,
An find our identity within
Public display of deformation,
Striped naked, to express self
awareness, no more gruesome
enough to repulse, nor normal
enough to ignore the silver line
Between trauma and wrinkle;
scars fade, not vanish, but
keep us together regardless.

O, I believe there might be something out there we can't see.
Some Cosmic Orchestrator or Supreme Divinity...

But why would it be calling you, just you and you alone?
If It's just all-so-powerful, it knows to use the phone.

I really see no reason, there's no reason I can see
Why God would bother calling you, and never ring up me.

But then again I'm just a simple man who won't define
The wherefore and the whatnot or the mind of The Divine.

Yet still I have a doubt or two that you've heard Holy Word...
Your actions speak much louder, Sir, than anything I've heard
From your lofty pulpit where you rant and proselytize
And tell us God just told YOU all the things we should despise.

But then again I'm just a simple man who won't define
The wherefore or the whatnot or the mind of The Divine.

A crackpot, don't get closer
I thought to myself when I first saw you
Little did the poor me knew
I would end up loving you.
We were living in completely different worlds,
With extremely opposite principles
I denied everything you said, you did
And you were no different
Still I found something comfortable in you
I started telling u all my boring histories
Cussing out the double crossers I have met
Ranting out the regrets of my life
Crying over my first love failure and whatnot
I gave out almost every memory my brain held
You always listened discreetly
To the gibberish coming out of me.
I was able to show the genuine me
Without the fear of being judged,
You saw right through my mind
Like it was a clear glass piece
When it was all dark and dull.
You solved every puzzle of me
Whenever i came with a broken picture.
You came like a summer to me
When my eyes had long rainy days.
I fell sick you nursed me like my mom,
Took wrong turns, you guided me like my dad,
You give advices like my granny,
We sticked together like we were twins,
We fought like we were foes,
You looked after me like a lover.
Now, you have become my crackpot
My family, my love, my fundamental person
Under a single label
My Best friend !!!

press to distress
express disdain
dismay
say if may
dis is in vain

but there's rain in my veins
and through the pain
is where we gain
the whys and the eyes
for I's and the lies

I guess I got caught in the rot
but hey why not
leave like a leaf
live and relieve
weave and retrieve
humus is us and whatnot

it’s all a lie, how i say i’m
a writer; i’m a fraud, and none of it is
mine. my pieces are edited over and
over, occasionally by those who’re
adequate,
intelligent,
with genuine talent,
but i’m just a fraud, a fraud with a
vocab, a fraud pretending they possess skills.


    my first real crime: i applied for a writing course-- i guess stanford didn’t see how my fiction wasn’t just me, and it was jenny, my good friend jenny who edited this piece-- made it worthy of  praise, worthy of pride, worthy of
stanford.
i remember that morning, a sunday in may, my phone waking me in vexation, and with a grudge i pick it up, reading jenny, my good friend jenny say: cher, i got in, i ****** got in, check your god ****** email. now.

congratula

  *******, i can only internally scream, it’s
all a lie.
    i’m not who they think  am, i’m
a fraud, a really good
fraud, a fraud who
deceived not only stanford but also
       themselves, a fraud with
too much pride     so they
forced themselves to apply. i don’t deserve
any of this, at all. i faked my skills, my
     piece isn’t mine, it’s all a lie, i’m not
adequate,
intelligent,
with genuine talent,
cause i’m just a fraud, a fraud with a
vocab, a fraud pretending they possess skills.


     and another time: on the flight to san francisco, it sank in-- how i’d be stretched thin, pretending and acting and deceiving a professor, a real stanford professor, how there was no way in hell i’d be nearly as good, i was misunderstood cause i wasn’t anybody, you see, i’m just me; a sad, short, fool; like i was once again the sad and  anxious kid alone in
preschool.
then in a blur, i’m checking in, these students sitting here all assured and then there’s me, o me, about to be marked as an absentee because apparently they see me as an equal, an equal who was at the very least
adequate,
intelligent,
with genuine talent,
but i’m just a fraud, a fraud with a
vocab, a fraud pretending they possess skills.


this is insane,
i can’t stay in this house full of writing
   students, they’re almost like mutants,
writers are an absolutely crazy
lot, they’ll give me  a blood clot and
whatnot. well, maybe the expository bunch
will be alright, but that’s just a hunch. my
concern is with the creative crew,
         cause everyone knows the
            most catastrophic murders are
creative.  they know no bounds, they’ll write
whatever to the grave, their poetry so sharp
it could ****, and i know,
just from looking at them that, well,
i’m *******, cause i’m not at all
adequate,
intelligent,
with genuine talent,
and i’m just a fraud, a fraud with a
vocab, a fraud pretending they possess skills.



     and now a paradigm: i’m in class, my first class with twelve others, and next to me, my friend jenny, my good friend jenny, sat quietly, and in my chair i’m in internal warfare-- my head reeling, face flushing, all sorts of anxious feelings. so we’re waiting for the prof, and the moment he shows up i’m about to throw up because i know i’ll make myself out to be the weakling, the pleb, the imbecile amongst the others and i feel like a criminal. matthew, the prof, gives us five minutes to write, and all i could write was a pathetic seventeen syllables, and it truly was terrible, something like:

we are born as light
and struggle not to drown in dark
but it’s all for naught

  and i clearly remember his face, that expression showing subtly that i was a disgrace when i recited that haiku, and i felt as if that that was my cue; to leave, that is, but i couldn’t. and so i sat in class for the next three hours hanging my head in shame, because i knew that i wasn’t
adequate,
intelligent,
with genuine talent,
and i’m just a fraud, a fraud with a
vocab, a fraud pretending they possess skills.

I want a letter written to me,
Starting with Dear and ending with my utmost affection,
I wanna be brought up during those days where guys tried,
Like not afraid to get denied,
Lets pretend the internet isn't alive,
I wanna dance ballroom style, and let a man take the lead,
I want him to pretty much just protect me,
I'm trashing all this feministic ****,
Lets go back to those days when girls were respected and taken care of,
Rewind and replay the parts of Pride and Prejudice,
Or I wanna be Scarlett O'hara battling it out with Rhett,
I want a man who won't be so afraid,
Sure my face is pretty and whatnot, but why don't you say it to me?
Like grow a pair,
Grab me,
Make a move,
Don't be so **** afraid to hug me,
Please,
All I'm asking,
And I want to be dressed to the nines with ball gowns that go down to my ankles, and my hair all curled like Maria Antoinette,
Ok so maybe I've lost my mine,
But I sure wanna ride a carriage at twilight,
And have candles light the night,
Silly of me I suppose,
But still I cannot help but want those ancient times,
When men had to act right

Uncertainty bubbles within me
Confusion haunts even my deepest thought
Rejection lingers in my heart and soul
And sadness makes my vision distraught.

Sleep no longer comes easy
Dreams are vivid and whatnot
Questions await their partners in crime
While I try to recall a single moment we fought.

Glances slowly shrink away to peeks
Fingertips curl into anxious knots
A head nod or some symbolizes hello
As we realize that mutualism cannot be bought.

Make up your mind, oh, anytime now
For my heart beats, I don’t know much longer how.

across the river
made up of particles and whatnot
is where my soul belongs
it exasperates me that
the fish can easily go
and see my love
with a simple
flip of their fin
can watch my love
i grew up
believing no one
would ever fall in love
with me
that i’d be
forever lonely
like the moon wasn’t something
my love had built for me
in their bedroom
sitting at their desk
pondering which piece fixates itself
to which piece
so my broken heart strings bled
the color blue
it was blue because the
river was blue
and so were my feelings
but it was also blue because
it was cold outside
and i loved the way that
my love’s lips turned a slightly blue color
in the cold
and it was blue because that was
the color of their eyes
i tried to empty myself of all my
emotions
dont tell me that
a defective life is something
a therapist can fix
and that a couple pills a day could cure
because there is no way for it
to transit itself into something
beautiful.





m.g.

I spot a drone today;
No bombs,
But with plenty o’ potential –
A will to malice,
To malcontent, to ******.

I seek it south
And at its zenith,
Above dissent,
And the bastion that’d never know
Better, from worse.

So too, I spy it over the sands
And over cave,
Over Manhattan, over perdition,
And over “god,” over greed,
Over "great," and *******
Guaranteed;

A glistening, wrought silver teething,
“Dead,” come one wrong,
Word, or whatnot,
Anything antagonist “corporate,”
Our contradictory content,
Blessed, this,
“Complacency,” – indiscriminate.

Unbeknownst and melancholy-ridden,
The bombs have dropped,
And for some time now,
A sooner to be eternity
Whilst we’ve managed nothing but
The simplest of slumber;

We’re lucid but one second
And sheep more so the years.
The flock afar-critical,
As abstained become the hours,
The minutes, until, “then,”
Atop, “when,”
Whilst we learn again to breathe,
Maybe even dream,
And relieve the nooses continually
Knotted by others –

It’s an imaginary rebellion. Sure.
And I’m sure you’d agree;
Yet still, I soak a nightmare’s sweat
Whilst we gladly assume our
Peasant’s role
And as long as we do,
“They’ll,” gladly assume their
Thrones.